


The Sea is Dark

by sir_roundglasses



Series: Camelot [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, The Matter of Britain
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_roundglasses/pseuds/sir_roundglasses
Summary: Within a few minutes, Arthur Pendragon goes from rough warlord to Camelot's King at the death of his father, Uther. But his burning desire for his sister, Morgause, leads to the birth of a baby boy, with hair as black as soil, and he is ordered to be placed in a boat and drowned at sea.With the years passing, Arthur sends for his nephews, from Orkney, to Camelot. But with them rides his son Mordred, saved by fisherfolk, and certainly not dead.The Orkney Clan become knights of Arthur, but as Arthur's kingdom outwardly strengthens, inwardly, Camelot starts to unravel...





	1. Set Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _King Arthur let send for all the children born on May-day, begotten of lords and born of ladies; for Merlin told King Arthur that he that should destroy him should be born on May-day, wherefore he sent for them all, upon pain of death; and so there were found many lords' sons, and all were sent unto the king, and so was Mordred sent by King Lot's wife, and all were put in a ship to the sea, and some were four weeks old, and some less..._  
>   
> 
> \- Le Morte D'Arthur, Book I, Chapter XXVII. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a pinterest board that I have for this story! Please feel free to check it out. https://uk.pinterest.com/jazhiggs/arthuriana/

It occurred to him, several times on the journey to the sea, that there was no other way to secure his kingdom and those in it without killing his son. And even then, right now, that felt secondary.

Arthur’s shame was what swallowed him. Though his kingdom mattered greatly to him, the loss of eight innocent lives, children’s lives, was undecidedly cruel. But one of those babies carried in its blood Arthur’s shame. Shame of lust, of desire, uncontrolled hunger. He closed his eyes, swamped with the images of his beautiful sister, black hair tumbling down her naked back, the curves of her lips and hips utterly irresistible, her hands caressing his chest…

Their lack of self control, their lack of shame or care, had lead to a swelling in Morgause’s belly, and Arthur had fled his ally Lot’s court, damned if Lot caught him. It was said that the babe died in the cot, for everyone had noticed her pregnancy, but only those close to Arthur knew that this was not the case, that he had allowed one month. One month to make a decision, so desperate, in the face of a prophecy cast by Merlin.

The old man had snarled in his face, eyes glaring, and spat at him words that made Arthur’s blood cold.

“Blood of your blood, the boy shall bring about the downfall of Camelot and of you, Arthur Pendragon, if he lives.”

So it had been decided that, one month after May Day, he would alter the prophecy to make it fit for his retinue’s ears, and declare that a noble boy born of a nobleman, would bring about Camelot’s downfall, and the great Merlin had advised the death of these children. Arthur was haphazard about the date, blind in his terror, and had Kay and Bedivere collect the babies born give or take a month around May Day and place them in a boat made in the courtyard outside of Arthur’s hall.

And there they were, eight babies of noble blood, wriggling in the boat. Arthur was leaning on the helm now, hands white with shaking and face scrapped by the cold wind. They would die within hours, he hoped. The cold of the Scottish coast, far from Camelot, was too much to bear.

He made a silent prayer to God, hands pressed against the wood of the boat, that all would die, and with resignation and grief, kicked the boat out into the inky waters. 

 

 


	2. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And so by fortune the ship drave unto a castle, and was all to- riven, and destroyed the most part, save that Mordred was cast up, and a good man found him, and nourished him till he was fourteen year old..._
> 
>  
> 
> \- Le Morte D'Arthur, Book I, Chapter XXVII.

They heard the wailing first before they saw anything. Mera’s eyes, hawk-like, had narrowed and she abandoned her tools to notion down by the sea. Drust shrugged, but his wife’s insistence worried him, and he too dropped in tools as she wandered over to a pathway in the rocks, and followed her.

Mera and Drust clambered down the rocks nimbly; feet bare from farm work, the soft sand moved under their toes as they scrambled towards the shore-line, following the sound of the wailing. The sea was a miserable grey and roaring in their ears, the sky similar but silent, but they could distinctly make out, even Drust with his bad eyesight, the shape of a clothed bundle. And the bundle was screaming.

Mera was quicker, reaching the bundle first, and she yelled. Drust scrambled after her, heart racing, hands outstretched to snatch the bundle-

But Mera had it close to her chest, her dress wet with sand and sea, eyes streaming.

“A bairn!” Her voice was ragged and the bundle screamed again against her chest. “Alive, Drust, a bairn!”

Apart from complete confusion, Drust’s first thought was that it was a cruel trick from the Fair Folk, with their bairn snatching and their beautiful blonde hair, but as Mera turned the bundle towards him, his eyes could not mistake the dark hair of a boy of this world. The bundle was drenched, and it was known that the sea was still bitter in late May… how in God’s name had the bairn survived so exposed?

“’Tis fate, Drust, that ‘tis alive.” Mera whispered, and turned the bairn back to her warm chest, her eyes on its pale face, unwavering. “God be praised.”

“Aye,” Drust nodded, “praise Him.” But the pits of his stomach overturned. Such a thing should not happen- a bairn washed up on the shore alive? Impossible. But he saw the impossible with his clouded eyes, and wondered, briefly, whether it was indeed God. Or fate, he supposed. Not that it mattered. The outcome was the same. The bundle wailed again, and spluttered. “Come, we must get the wee ‘un back before the fire, to warm it. Wouldna want to be out here much longer.”

 

* * *

 

Mera was adjusting one of her round dress pins on her shoulder, sitting at the fire with the child on her lap, as Drust walked in with a clean wooden bowl and spoon. He’d washed it outside, taking a long time: he thought about the situation he was now in- just a few hours before, they were childless. He had made peace with this long ago, owing it to Mera to stop pestering and insisting; Mera had taken her resignation silently, hand no longer hovering over her belly hopefully after every night. It pained them both. They were an energetic couple, and no folk could deny their virility, but it was no good. Nothing had come of their attempts, and after several years, they slowed themselves, taking comfort that maybe, it was best that they were not blessed with child.

 

But now, a black haired bairn screamed in the small nest of clean blankets that Mera had forged, and Mera was silently examining it’s every limb and feature, counting its toes even, for sign of harm.

 

Drust, hesitant to touch it, went over to their food store and aimlessly picked up every bit of food they had and pondered whether he could turn it to mush for the bairn to eat. There was a small, dense brown loaf wrapped in cloth, and he took a small chunk off it, stuck it in the bowl, added some of the water boiling above the fire, and turned it to mush with his hands. It looked foul, but at least the bairn could eat it.

 

He presented it to Mera, who stifled a laugh.

“I suppose it’s all we have.” She tapped the ground next to her and Drust sat, eyeing the bairn with his heart racing. Mera picked the bundle up and placed it into Drust’s lap, and nudged him.

“Feed it.” she said bluntly. “Go on.”

“Mera, I cannae!”

“Do it. We both need to get used to it.”

 

He sighed, dipped the spoon into the gruel and placed it carefully to the bairn’s mouth; it opened hungrily, eyes eager. Drust felt his stomach warm as he did the same again, and again, until the bairn wailed that it wanted no more, and he cast the bowl aside, bringing it closer to his wide chest.

It was theirs now, and only death would separate them.

 

* * *

 

The bairn grew slowly, and Mera and Drust feared for its health, but whatever the bairn’s size, it made up for in a ferocious desire to know things. No older than seven or eight, the bairn clung to Mera’s knees as she made broth, eager to know how to boil bones and clean vegetables, and how to pull them from the earth without snapping the tops off, like Drust did. It followed her around the house, learning to stitch together clothing, how to mend their winter tunics, and how to remove stains. Once learnt, he stood behind Drust and watched, grey eyed, as he dug his plough into the earth and sliced it, bringing up the dark flesh beneath, and as he grew, the plough became part of him as it did Drust, and they lived, the three of them, contently.

 

Becoming a man was not something Drust remembered doing- he just was. But with the bairn, he could not go and tell him that he must walk five miles to find and woman, and take her in the peat somewhere, because he knew the bairn, and that was not its way. All three shared the sheets on the floor, and though Mera and he often enjoyed each other, the bairn took no interest, and though Drust had tried the odd lewd remark about enjoying himself now and then, the bairn remained silent. So they were silent too, until one evening, sitting by the fire, Drust leaned over and placed a rough hand on the bairns shoulder.

“Yer got tae be like me now, bairn, and yer- well, yer should have a name.”

“A name?” the bairn asked through a mouth of bread. The fire lit up its grey eyes, face sharp and pale, half cast in shadow. All three were hunched over, hungry and tired from work, but the bairn looked alert as Drust stumbled over his words. He was not an eloquent man, but their bairn was patient, like Mera was.

“Yer get tae pick it, yer name, I mean… anything yer like.” Drust looked over at Mera, who had finished her bread and was looking at her family with wary eyes. Picking a name was not something Drust or Mera had wanted to do for it- it had to pick itself. It would give indication to them about what the bairn thought of itself- see, at twelve, the bairn’s hips were oddly wide and shoulders narrow, and Drust had shrugged at what was between the bairn’s legs, saying to Mera that the sea had done it, and that maybe, God had not been looking. He did not understand, and nor did she, but they were also uncaring, since they desired a bairn above everything else, whatever the bairn looked like.

“Then I pick Mordred.”

He was a boy of the sea if there ever was one.

And Mera moved to push her forehead against the bairn’s, the adult greeting, and Drust followed suit, and from then on, they had a son.


	3. A Visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short! 
> 
> When Mordred refers to 'mainland', he's referring to the larger island that makes up part of the Orkney's, called Mainland. 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mainland,_Orkney

The roughly made nets were slung over his narrow shoulders, the creatures wriggling behind his back; slimy and mud covered, the sensation was smooth if unpleasant, and the coolness was relieving. The weak Orkney sun was struggling through the clouds, and Mordred paused to shield his eyes as it peaked for a moment through the clouds. The pale sand and grey sea were suddenly illuminated- it reminded him of the beautiful glass in the kirk nearby, some miles walk, with it’s stone and glass contrasts. He did not know whether anyone made such glass in Orkney- he assumed it was sent for by the lady, who owned the farmland with their lord Lot. He did not know her name.

 

Aching and disgruntled from a long morning attempting to catch fish, he sighed, and sat down on the sand. The nets lay beside him now and he could see the fish and other small sea creatures flopping about helplessly between the rope, their little mouths gaping open and eyes wide. He poked one or two, feeling the scales beneath the thick, dark mud that coated everything. He wished he could get the fish cleaner before bringing them home, but his father occasionally used the mud to repair parts of the walls, and he feared washing away something useful. Whatever lived and breathed here- well, he supposed it didn’t even really need to be alive- was useful, and was used. He liked that about home- though there were no trees to shelter from if you caught bad weather, and he rarely saw traders with their different clothes and shining goods like he did on some of the other, bigger islands, he felt as though he wanted to remain here forever. The sea line kissed dark, uneven cliffs, where you could count as many birds as you could; the sea gave plentiful food, and though the land was not easy to plough, it too produced enough. They used to sell such produce to the good lord Lot but now it was rumoured that his wife, the lady, did much of his bidding, since he was preoccupied with some dispute with another lord down South- further down in the mainland than Mordred had ever gone. But he and his parents did not care for it.

 

Blinking at the hovering sun behind the clouds, he felt his stomach grumble, and got up. Turning around, he heaved the nets up the bank and carried on towards home, muscles aching. His parents would be in now, he hoped, maybe preparing some mid day food.

 

Their house was situated between three slightly bigger huts, all straw roofed and wattle walled, and the sea- Mordred liked the position because if he left out of the door in the morning he could position it so that he didn’t see the other people or the other houses, and go straight to the sea to work. But sometimes, the company of the other people was pleasant, and today, Merdyn, another fisher, nodded to him cheerful, showing his toothless mouth. Mordred nodded back, giving a quick if not a little too brief smile, and placed the heavy net on a hook outside the door, and headed into the dark house.

 

He blinked owlishly around, eyes adjusting to the small stream of light through one window, when he saw a darkly clad figure. It was next to his mother, Mera. Drust was sitting down on the stool near the empty hearth. Mordred made a noise of confusion before Mera stepped forward and clasped his shoulders.

 

“We have a visitor, Mordred.” She would not look at him. The pins that usually kept her head covering in place were missing, and her face seemed slack and tired. “The good lady has c-come, c-come tae-“

 

“Tae look at our fish.” Drust finished, suddenly standing up. Mordred could feel the coolness coming of him in waves, strong and persistent. His shoulders were square- defensive?- and his gaze at the visitor was not friendly. “Now, ma lady, if yer will come outside wi’ me, our Mordred has brought in some fish from this mornin’-“

 

Drust almost marched the lady out. The sunlight bleaching his father and the visitor, Mordred could now see through the doorway that she had pale blonde hair, peachy skin, and wore a dress beautifully made of green and blue, huge jewelled pins at her shoulders and a string of dark beads round her neck. Her uncovered hair, however, meant that she was mostly likely not high born. A working girl, dressed like that? Mordred could almost laugh. And he did, and it erupted out of him like a distasteful bubble, sour in his mouth but making his lips curl up. The girl must be stupid, to wander around the settlements dressed like her betters.

 

He was pulled from his thoughts by Mera’s cool hands on his shoulders.

 

“She dunna want the fish.” Mordred mumbled, as the lady’s eyes avoided the wriggling nets.

 

“Nae, bairn, but it is not a concern of yours what she wants.” She stroked the side of his face, and gave him a watery smile. Her lined face was pained, he could see it in the crookedness of her lips and the smallness of her eyes, no longer wide and eager to look upon him. “Now, come help me light a fire so we can do somethin’ wi’ these vegetables.”

 

* * *

 

The visit of the lady had made Drust and Mera agitated, and Mordred despised their uneasiness. Drust’s voice had got louder, more sharp, and he often instructed Mordred on things he could already do, eager to see even more improvement. Mera too had become sharp, but certainly more smothering, and her eyes followed Mordred around everywhere. This lead him to be at sea more with the wave’s calming sounds. It was an odd gentleness, one which he knew could turn to violence at a blink of an eye, but the sea’s sounds reminded him of Mera’s soft, hushed lullabies to him as a child, so he remained at sea as much as he could, with the cliffs close by. When the weather was bad, he sat just outside the hut, where the overhang of the roof gave shelter from the rain, and mended the ropes of his nets.

 

It was net mending he was doing when a stranger approached him one autumn day. As it was his usual and most practised past time, Mordred’s hands kept moving as the stranger walked towards him, and he waited for an introduction from him before looking up. When none came, a smirk flittered across Mordred’s mouth, and he remained at his nets, eyes on the rope.

He could feel the anger rolling off the figure in waves, hot and steady, as Mordred resisted the greeting as was accustomed. The sensation delighted him- there was a thrill of the unexpected that made his skin tingle, and there certainly wasn’t much of that in Orkney. Or maybe the figure’s anger delighted him, he wasn’t sure. Either way, winding him up was fun.

“Boy!” The voice was certainly Orkney. “I demand a greetin’! What is wrong wi’ you?” Ah, it was more refined that his speech, but it was punctured with anger and a certainly forcefulness that felt trained to Mordred- high born, then, he concluded. He wiped the smirk off his face, cleared his throat, and looked up through his dark hair.

 

The figure was much, much taller than him, and Mordred’s sitting position at his mending made it even worse. The boy- for he was not quite a man yet, since there was very little in the way of a beard- was well dressed, clothes clean and bright, what looked like newly dyed tunic. He was not old enough for trousers (though Mordred had been wearing his for years), but his tunic was a brilliant green, embroidered round the sleeves and hem. He wore boots, laced around his thick legs tightly, and a cloak was clasped at the shoulder with a plain pin. What was most memorable, however, was the boy’s unruly mop of red hair. Curly, like Mordred’s, it had been clipped close to his head, probably because it was easer than snagging a comb through it. Mordred was suddenly conscious of his longer, dark curls, somewhere below the ears and in front of his eyes. Like him too, the boy had freckles, though he assumed it was because of the summer that had just passed. He did not know that the boy had bright freckles all year round, regardless of weather, and he was self conscious of them.

 

“Aye, greetings tae you.” Mordred said plainly, “What can I do for you?”

 

“I want tae learn how tae sail.” Mordred raised his eyebrows- the boy was very blunt, almost commanding. “Someone told me tha’ you are good in a boat, something small.” The boy moved towards him, and stuck out a thick, large hand. Certainly larger than his age. “Ma name is Gawain, son of Lot, of Briggfreet Castle.”

 

Mordred had heard of the family- indeed, he was sure that the ground on which his family’s hut stood belonged to them, and much else of the small island. His stomach churned momentarily before grabbing the boy’s arm in reply.

 

“I am Mordred. Just Mordred.” he said, and smiled.

 


	4. Northern Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lot, King of Orkney in the Northern seas,  
> Long ere the time when, fighting sword in hand  
> 'Gainst Arthur in the barons' wars he made  
> His name to all true men a byword like  
> A thing of scorn, one summer morning sat  
> Within the presence chamber all alone,  
> For knights and squires that made his island court,  
> (A tiny court rul'd by a weakling king,)  
> Were absent at the hunting everyone.  
> \- At the Palace of King Lot, Oscar Fay Adams

 

 

Mordred and the boy, Gawain, were not necessarily friends. They did not see each other apart from the sailing instructions, and if Gawain ever visited the settlement with Lot for inspection and produce collection, he nodded politely to Mordred, and Mordred would do the same back. However, he could not deny that he enjoyed the power he had over the boy, the position of instruction. He relied almost entirely on Mordred’s knowledge, had none of his own, and also had no alternative- this meant that Mordred could do, essentially, whatever he wanted, since Gawain had no other teacher, and certainly no other boat in which to practise with. This made Mordred smile in the mornings when he woke and put his spirits up when he was alone fishing, knowing that not only would Gawain come back, but it was assured he would.

 

The winter months moved closer and the days much shorter, limiting the time that the boys were out in the boat. But Gawain, it seemed, had started to become competent, and could steer and row easily enough now without much help from Mordred. Soon, Mordred could lie back in the boat as Gawain pushed them both out towards the grey, miserable horizon, far enough away to fish.

 

They spoke rarely in detail, Mordred preferring the noise of the waves and his own breath to the sounds of Gawain’s chattering, but they found themselves starting to talk about their mothers.

Whilst Mordred was careful with the words he used in the presence of the high-born boy, it was clear that he adored Mera. He adored the feeling of her soft grey hair under her cap, her sing-song voice, the way she was so eager to nourish him with whatever food they had, even at her own expense. She was devoted to him, and in return, Mordred only felt warmth to her, the need to provide for her, and for her to know how much he cared.

In contrast, it appeared that Gawain felt little for his mother. He told Mordred precious little about her, except that she was beautiful. Mordred had laughed unkindly and replied that everyone thinks their mothers are beautiful because to them, they are, but Gawain’s scowl made him quiet. No more was spoken for the rest of the trip, except for a small grunt Gawain made when Mordred placed his thin hand on top of Gawain’s to help guide the little boat to shore.

 

* * *

 

 

If anything, Mera and Drust had been far too worried about the bairn to notice that he was, in fact, growing. Mordred understood that he was still small and all bone, like an underfed cat, and he struggled with the insignificant amount of hair on his chin, but his muscles were tightening and face becoming more angular, which was when he realised he must look nothing like Mera and Drust at all. But these thoughts were cast aside by his interest in his own body.

 

It had started with his hands. They were bonier than Gawain’s, much smaller and thinner, and the knuckles bulged slightly. His thumbs were long and slender, nifty for mending the nets, and even though he had recently developed calluses along his right palm, they remained relatively sore-free. Indeed, their softness was useful, especially when his interest moved from his hands to the rest of his body. He was exceptionally gentle with himself, his hands very rarely moving between his legs, but when he did, it was easy to coax some satisfaction, and he had started to note when Drust and Mera fell asleep so he would not disturb them. He reckoned that this was what all men did, but he said nothing and trained himself to be silent in his enjoyment.

 

Gawain too was growing. Mordred could start to see some bulge under his tunic’s arms from some kind of regular weight work, and Mordred wondered, with some jealousy, whether the boy was allowed to practise with swords. He supposed he would, like all young highborn men, eventually learn- or maybe he had done so for a long time before he even knew Mordred. Regardless, it made the pit of Mordred’s stomach sour, and when Gawain started to use excuses not to sail, that he was needed at training, or archery, or horse riding, Mordred remained silent too. Mera had taught him that saying nothing could reveal more than words.

 

* * *

 

 

The sea had been a miserable grey, the sky threatened to unleash its rain, and the wind battered the nets hung up outside the hut when he woke, so Mordred had spent the day at home with Mera and Drust, mending nets, preparing vegetables and salting the fish he and Drust had caught together some days before. There was a talk of what to plant this coming winter before the ground became solid again, and it was only a small cough in the doorway that broke apart their enjoyment.

 

The blonde, well-dressed servant girl had called again to their home, and this time had brought her mistress. Mordred was hurriedly introduced just as ‘ma son’ and his sharp eyes noted how the lady’s mistress had dark, large eyes that followed him around the dim hut, even when his back was turned. Mera offered hot broth, and it was politely refused as the lady and the servant girl sat down on their only stalls. Drust excused himself and went outside, and Mordred saw that he was pretending to fix some of the nets.

 

“No, madam, we are not here for such things,” the high-born lady had replied to Mera’s hovering handle and bowl. The lady’s mistress was not of Orkney, nor of the North, Mordred noted. Her accent was strange, oddly harsh. “I have come to speak to your son, Mordred, I believe?”

 

“Aye,” Mordred moved forward. “I am, lady.”

 

The woman was beautiful. Her dress was made of a fine, thin material, a travelling cloak wrapped around most of her body, fixed with a golden broach of a stag. The lord Lot’s symbol was a fish- so the lady was certainly not from around here. Her hair, unlike other high-born ladies (or even any other woman, for that matter), was left to pool around her shoulders and back, and it was as dark as the soil, her eyes the same. Her nose was angular, cheekbones high and sharp, and across her nose and cheeks were a smattering of dark freckles. Her lips were full and plump, oddly soft looking against the harsh, cold wind outside. She clearly did not spend much time outside.

 

“You play with my son, I hear, Mordred.” The woman’s eyes did not leave his face. Mordred felt the sting of the words ‘play’ but ignored it, swallowing.

 

“Aye, ma lady.”

 

“And I hear your instruction is good. In fact, so good that he can now sail.”

 

“Aye, ma lady, he can.”

 

“I am here to… thank you, for your kindness.” The lady’s voice was measured, and Mordred looked from Mera back to the lady quickly, unsure of how to proceed.

 

“What do you want, ma lady?” He waited. Finally, she spoke, with a voice like the small little weeds that grew by the side of the house- small, but hard. Directed.

 

“I am Lady Morgause, companion of Lot. The rest of my household is currently away, and he is occupied, so I thought I would make an excursion to see you. It is good for me to see my-our lands. “ It sounded rehearsed, as all high born’s speech did to Mordred, but he ignored her, silent still. “I would like to bestow upon you a gift, Mordred if I could.”

 

She was reaching into a pouch attached to the belt around her waist and was half way towards unwrapping something when Mordred finally managed to splutter out words, his voice filled with anxiety. He couldn’t possibly take a gift, it would be unsuitable. Silly, in fact.

 

“Nae, ma lady, you cannae-“

 

“I insist, Mordred.” She said his name so softly, Mordred wondered whether she had said it before. It was a name rough on the tongue, and though not uncommon in Orkney- many children were named after the sea in such a place- he was, as far as he knew, the only one on the island. He was sure there were more on the mainland, but he didn’t care for the mainland. “Here.”

 

Her delicate pale hand was outstretched, showing an even thinner, whiter wrist, and in the palm sat a small orb. From the dim light through the singular window, it glowed faintly. It reminded Mordred of the beauties at the bottom of the sea, out of reach whilst fishing. His hand immediately went out to grasp it from her, but she suddenly drew it close to her chest. Her dark, wide eyes seemed to laugh at him.

 

“Now, Mordred, you must do something for me first.”

 

“Aye, ma lady. What is it?” He hoped his voice wasn’t too clipped. Mera’s eyes were burning a hole in the side of his face where he was watching the Lady Morgause intently with an unwavering gaze, matching hers with strength. She seemed to dominate the tiny space, and Mordred did not doubt that the longer the high-born lady stayed in the small hut, the more uncomfortable Mera became.

 

“You must teach my son Gawain how to make and mend the nets. What good is a fisherman if he cannot make and mend his own tools?” She asked the question as though it deserved an answer, and when Mordred blankly stared at her, she let out a small, bubbly laugh and drew the orb out from under her cloak again.

 

“Here, for your hard work.”

 

He immediately took it from her and nodded, thanking her humbly, as he was supposed to, for helping her son. It was no trouble- Gawain simply accompanied Mordred out on voyages he would make alone regardless, but if the lady thought it fit to reward him, then reward he will take. He smoothed it between his palms as the lady and her servant got up to leave, and Mera elbowed him forcefully as they left the house, earning them a small wave. Once out of sight, Mera sighed and headed over to the fire to stir the pot above it.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a long day at sea when Mordred finally persuaded Gawain that he needed to look at the nets. They were ratty anyway, and some help would mean the job was quick. He had been pushed for several days but the red-headed boy was having none of it, sighting tiredness as an excuse. Repeatedly. Mordred had no time for this- he hated all excuses to do work, and after some hot sighs from Mordred, Gawain grumbled in agreement and helped Mordred haul the boat over the sand and parked it up on the grassy bank, as was its usual spot. 

 

They sat down next to each other and Mordred pulled the nets into his lap. His knees stuck into the side of Gawain's stomach but the boy did not complain, he instead pulled out some bread wrapped in white cloth. He offered a piece to Mordred, who took it quickly and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing, he handed a net to Gawain and a thick needle made of bone. The clear whiteness of the needle was brilliant against the gloomy skies and sea- Mordred found them easier to find if dropped, as though nature was helping him out- but Gawain held it awkwardly. Mordred laughed at him openly, but lines were forming between Gawain's eyes in frustration. A little unsure of whether to watch or to help, Mordred decided to look away, since he had found Gawain was not one fond of being laughed at... 

 

It was then when he saw the fire.

 

Immense plumes of dark grey smoke billowed from the ground near the settlement, orange flames licking up and spitting into the air. A serious fire. He nudged Gawain, who ignored him, but another elbow plunged into his side made the red headed boy look up. Mordred quickened the pace, hurrying Gawain, and both dragged the nets behind them, weighing them down as they snagged on the long grass. After tugging viciously in an attempt to get the nets free, Gawain bent down to aid him, and as Mordred turned back around, he realised he was now close enough to see what was wrong.

"That's huge." he whispered, and Mordred nodded, getting up and pulling the nets onto his back. 

"Hurry, we've got tae go and help." 

Both dragged the nets behind them, weighing them down as they snagged on the long grass. After tugging viciously in an attempt to get the nets free, Gawain bent down to aid him, and as Mordred turned back around, he realised he was now close enough to see what was wrong.

It was his hut, and the fire raged inside, consuming the walls and the roof. Others from the settlement had dragged barrels of water over in an attempt to put out the fire, but as they saw Mordred approach, they stopped. Mera and Drust were not among them. 


	5. Tapestry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mordred is alone and Morgause schemes.

Green leaves, unusually bright and healthy for such a poor winter, crept up the dark stone wall of the courtyard, sheltering half the courtyard in a cool, mellow shade against the bright sun. It was early summer, and Mordred’s skin was burning where it peaked out of his tunic sleeves. He’d rolled up the sleeves but his forearms were going from freckles to burnt very quickly, but the sun was bleaching his thoughts. The light would seep into every crack and fill it, engulfing him.  
The desire to eradicating any misery in his mind dominated his actions and drove him to seek the solitude of the courtyard and the heat. The heat seared any comfort from him and made him think of his physical discomfort instead of anything else, and he wished for anything but his thoughts to overwhelm him as they did so often.

Sometimes he thought his sorrow too much.

The smoke and fire that killed his parents clung to him. Every day he woke and thought he would see them, and every day he was, instead, greeted by the good Lady Morgause’s servants, waking him and her four sons. He had to wipe away the bleariness that smothered his face every morning. He almost choked on it. Bile rose up and stained his throat. And even after months, it had been every morning the same. Barefoot, he would hurry and push open the window to vomit, gut-wrenching until dry and painful. He would wipe his face, clear his throat and spit. Then, he would turn to face Gawain and smile a little, trying to show the boy how content he was.

The Lady Morgause had stepped in so quickly after their deaths that Mordred had barely had time to think for himself. Gawain, after standing silently by Mordred’s side as he surveyed the blackened house, had run to the castle back to his mother. He must have pleaded with the lady so hard that she accepted, Mordred thought and recognised him into their household out of pity. A convenient playmate for her sons, with the added expense being no problem for her and her lord, Lot. It was often done. A poor boy would be allowed to play with the sons and receive their punishments on their behalf. He would, in return, get fed well, clothed well, and get an education.

It was not as though Mordred was not grateful. He was. He had no clue what he would be doing now if she had not stepped in. He was considered old enough, at twelve, to look after himself whilst living in the settlement by the sea. Those thoughts made him laugh- he could barely wake in the morning without sorrow, let alone mend his nets or sail. The thought of not seeing his parents, not feeling their warmth beside him as he slept, not waking and mending his nets in the morning, not ploughing with Drust, not cooking with Mera- would overwhelm with such intensity that he could barely move. Then he felt as though he was still lying in the ashes and mud of his home, fingers digging into ground at the bones and skin of his parents, the stone smattered with-

He shook his head in an attempt to remove the thoughts from his mind. He grasped at his hair, tugging at the long strands, and let out a low whine. His stomach was chronically empty, refusing food because it made him sick, and everything around him was too bright. The green of the leaves glinting in the sun hurt his eyes, the darkness of the shade was too black, too deep, and the sun, oh, this rare blaring sun stung. The whine became longer, lower, until he spluttered, gasping for air. Suddenly, his chest contracted and a sob escaped, quiet. It didn’t relieve the pain around his lungs and heart, but the sounds of crying were rhythmic, and it some strange way, it soothed him. Mordred wrapped his thin arms around himself and crushed his head into his knees, letting himself heave and sob in the burning sun.

* * *

 

Morgause watched from her chamber window as her ward cried, bent over in the hot sun of midday. The courtyard was her least favourite place in the whole castle complex- it was the oldest, and the stone crumbled when leant on, the style now distasteful. It reminded her of the isolation of the island, and she hated it. For something too precious to her to be sitting in it made her blood turn sour, but she took a deep breath and clutched the cross around her neck. She could not dictate where he went.

She moved away from the window, pausing. The silk that covered parts of the walls of her chamber glinted from the light from the narrow window: blues and greens were illuminated momentarily, bright and rich. They had been an expensive gift from her brother Arthur, a man who ruled further down south and whose wealth and influence could never match her husband’s. She knew Lot insisted that the gift hung elsewhere in the hall, but she placed it for her eyes only. The rest of the room reminded her of Lot’s desire for sparseness and simplicity; with a simple but large wooden bed, small personal altar, and trunks for her clothing, the room was barer than her childhood chamber in the hall of her parents. Bringing the brightness of the tapestry into such darkness pleased her, her small retaliation to her husband’s wishes. But clouds covered the sun and the room was plunged into darkness once more, shadowing her mind from old memories.

Morgause sighed as Mordred let out another sob, more audible this time, and fingered her cross.  
The boy was surprisingly tolerable for a child. His posture was good and body healthy, which she thanked Our Lady every day for since it would be hard to knock such a thing out of him. She was slowly working on his manners and rough local accent; her four sons by Lot, Gawain the oldest, Agravaine and Gaheris the twins, and Gareth the youngest, had picked up the dialect of Orkney too, but it was not as rough as Mordred’s, whose voice both slurred and cracked, and didn’t carry far. He was rarely heard over the other boys when speaking at meals in the hall, and for Morgause, strength in the voice meant conviction to others, a way to gain respect. She would remedy this quickly. He could not read either, nor knew familiarly the words to attend church. Now, these would take much more time. She moved to her altar and placed her hands upon it, leaning as the sun once again flooded the room and made her back warm, skin tingle.

“Blessed Lady, make me so strong as to teach Mordred…” she began quietly, but the words died on her tongue and inner thoughts overwhelmed her.  
To teach such walking embodiment of her sin words that brought salvation? The words of Vespers, of saint’s days, and of prayers to the Virgin?  
Oh, how she’d begged the Blessed Lady to spare her the grief of childbirth, harbouring thoughts to loose the child, to take herbs, bitter in her mouth, to expel the child… Spare her shame. But God had seen it fit for her to carry full term and give birth to a child, healthy if small, with curling dark hair and freckles. Freckles of her and her brother, Arthur. And now, the child cried in her courtyard, ate at her table, spoke to her sons.

The fire in the settlement had been no accident. She had sent one of her closest servants, Bichers, to kindle the flame and then be the one to call for help to eradicate suspicion. She was sure that both the boy’s parents- for she had to admit that they had cared for him- died quickly, smoke suffocating them before the fire. Not that this thought haunted her. Morgause had not been one for grief. She had hoped that the boy would be the same, unattached and easily welcomed into her home. Who would not want to live such a comfortable life? But this was a fantasy, and she scolded herself for thinking that such a young boy could be so cold as to not mourn his parents. Of course, he would. Mordred had been obviously attached- but what other way could she secure him into her household except for the death of those that he called his parents? How else was she to care for her son?

For Mordred was her son. She had seen the overwhelming irony, and incredible fate, that he had been washed up in the same place she now resided with Lot. Not even cold waters or Arthur’s determination could separate what was truly meant to be together: her and her son. God intended it, it was clear. Morgause had not let despair cloud her since she had heard that a small baby had been found and fostered into the settlement: bringing up Gawain, born a year after Mordred, whilst watching Mordred from afar had not been as easy as she had imagined, and when three other boys had come along in quick succession, her hands had been full. Running Lot’s household also occupied her. He was a man of expenses and money but she managed to balance his books with ease, though it consumed her time.  
And now, as her sons grew, she would be blessed with another, his blood shared between Morgause and her brother.

A bastard born of incest had been Arthur’s nightmare. Reared in another’s household, Arthur had re-joined his parent's hall when a young man, and had taken over his sister’s marriage plans. A stranger to him, he did not care at her protests for being sent away, so far North that she would be almost unreachable, to make an alliance with a Scottish leader. He did care, however, about the smouldering looks between them, how their hands lingered over each other’s when he escorted her to and fro. She knew that their desires were not as they should be, but they had never known each other. They did not feel like brother and sisters as other families’ did- after all, they had not grown up together, they had not played, learned, ate together. Strangers.  
They could not control themselves. The desire did not extinguish itself, so Arthur sent her to be the wife of Lot. But a call to aide Lot’s nearby campaign, an excuse to spend some time in Orkney, had rekindled their hot passion, and Mordred was conceived. Her brother despaired, and when the child was born, the one closest to him, Merlin, had claimed that a prophecy had touched him, calling Arthur to dispose of the children with the same birth as Mordred. Morgause knew no more about the prophecy than that- that it was necessary for the children born around May to die. A plan from the twisted old fool that controlled her brother to eradicate her influence on Arthur, no doubt- kill the child, keep Morgause in Orkney. Rid himself of his previous life before becoming wed to some Roman nobleman’s child, a dainty, sickly thing called Guinevere. A perfect alliance, Lot had called it, and then chuckled, not seeing the despair shown at Morgause’s gulps of wine.

Her knuckled had gone white clutching the side of her alter. She took a deep, long breath, and unfolded herself. There was no need to think of the past now. Her future was down in the courtyard, with burning skin.


	6. Drown.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'That Arthur, thy own son, shall rule  
>  O'er England in thy stead?'  
> The noble vassals gathered round,  
>  Listening astonishèd.
> 
> For naught knew they of infant son,  
>  But every Baron there  
> Mighty of men, and strong of arm,  
>  Wended to be the heir.  
> […]
> 
> 'May God Almighty bless my son!  
>  I, too, my blessing give;  
> Bid him use fitting holy prayers  
>  That my poor soul may live:
> 
> 'And claim the crown right worshipful  
>  On pain of blessing lost.'  
> With that he turned him o'er again,  
>  And yielded up the ghost"
> 
> The Birth of King Arthur, Anonymous

 

 

Arthur knelt still, long after the holy man had left the small wooden building that served as his late father’s chapel. The ground, made of cold hard stone, made Arthur’s knees ache, but his eyes were fixed on the beautifully decorated cross in front of him. A reminder of the sweet Jesus’ suffering. Arthur shifted his weight and sighed; he was muttering prayers to himself, less formulated than those he said to his priest, and as he found himself getting angry, frustrated, he wondered whether they were really for the Lord or for his other lord, his father, but was that blasphemous..? Arthur shook the cold from his body and started again, bringing up familiar words. If he thought of his father every damn time he knelt, he’d never finish a single prayer-

 

Footsteps behind him. He squeezed his eyes tighter, hoping the sensation would focus him, but he soon found a warm, small hand on his back. He opened his eyes. Gwenhwyfar.

 

“Would you like me to join you?” Her voice reminded him of whistling wind; so gentle and soft. He had never thought he could like a voice so much.

 

“I am distracted.” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted her in the chapel or not but did not have time to dismiss her for she knelt beside him, fabric sprawling around her, beads around her neck jingling against each other. Her smile, pink lips on pale, luminous skin, drew his attention. The rustling of her clothing settled. The beads settled. Arthur’s mind did not: but no, he was in a holy place, he would not think of her. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her hair, unbound like a child’s, but his fingers remained firmly laced over each other in prayer.

 

* * *

 

 

Mordred sat next to Gawain as he loaded more poached bird onto the hammered out metal plate. The handy work was more refined than Mordred had ever had before coming to the castle, and he wondered idly how the maker had got the metal so smooth. His fingers, itching, traced around the rim of the plate before Gawain’s eyes drilled heat into the side of his head, and he stopped.

 

“Yer shoulsna touch things so much.” Gawain’s voice was low, unable to be heard by anyone but Mordred. “It’s rude tae do so at dinner. People dinnae like it.”

 

Mordred was now fingering the hem of his dark green tunic, feeling the rough embroidery against his skin; he had always repeated small movements, and it was only now, with other boys to compare himself with, that he realised it was not what others did. He noted that Agravaine, one of the twins, was restless and jogged his legs up and down, and Gareth put everything he could into his wet, teething mouth, but Mordred’s movements were repetitive and fast and increased when he was nervous. Sometimes it happened when he was excited too, but that had not happened in a long while.

 

“I cannae help it. I like doing it.”

 

“Aye, I ken,” Gawain poured himself a drink, “but mother has started tae notice. She’ll scold yer.”

 

“Well, she can scold me all she likes. I will keep doing it.”

 

Gawain smirked at this. He nodded to the plate.

 

“Let’s eat, before Gaheris gets tae the second bowl.”

 

Dinner lasted longer than usual, and the boy's heads had started to droop like damp flowers when Morgause called them into the small room to the side of the castle. There was a fire in the centre of the room, smoke billowing up into a gap in the thatched roof. The taste in Mordred’s mouth made him cough, but Gawain’s nudging stopped him.

 

In front of the five boys was Morgause. The four brothers found themselves straightening their backs and fixing their eyes squarely at her- her power drew their eyes to her like a moth to a flame. Mordred’s eyes too were drawn to her. Her hair was wound up plats to the back of her head, sleek black hair uncovered. Her neck was bare, long and white and impossibly thin; rough Orkney stones had been polished and attached to the broaches either side of her shoulders. A sumptuously dark red fabric draped over her, excessive and beautiful. Mordred suddenly realised he wasn’t breathing, and took a gasping breath, nearly losing his footing.

 

“Clot!” Gawain hissed angrily, but Morgause again commanded their attention as she stood up from her chair and walked – no, Mordred was sure she was gliding- towards them. Tender were her lips on each of her son’s foreheads, and a pale hand stroked the side of Mordred’s face.

 

“You are to start your training in manhood tomorrow.” Her voice trickled over Mordred like running water, smooth but cold. He realised that it was a lack of Orkney accent that unsettled him- he knew no one without. “All of you.”

 

It was clear that Gawain made a move to protest, for he had already started to practice with a sword, but his movements were stopped by Morgause’s raised regal hand.

 

“I understand that you have already started such practice, Gawain, my dearest. But the rest of you-“ her eyes cast over all of the boys, including Mordred, “- shall start too. It is never too early to learn to hold a sword. Gawain, you shall restart.” At this, Mordred saw Gawain blush, his face clashing with his hair. “Master Luke has told me that you need more practice. Now at least you shall have someone to practise with.” Morgause’s dark eyes flickered to Mordred’s face before leaving to settle on her youngest, Gareth. “Even you, Gareth, my love. We shall get you a seaxe if you remove your thumb from your mouth.” The red-headed child replied with more vicious sucking of his fingers. As Morgause rolled her eyes and turned her face away for a moment, Mordred felt his face heat up and he swallowed a laugh. Gareth, with a seaxe? He could barely dress himself. And he suddenly thought of himself with a seaxe and felt his stomach turn…

 

“That is all. Return to your quarters.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lot and Morgause’s home was a set of wooden buildings. Mordred was still amazed, several months into his stay, that every room had a purpose. He became convinced that they were lying to him, so would often peek into each room as he passed and tried to remember what it was used for yesterday. Many dwellings were made up of one large room divided into smaller sections for different uses, with fire ringed with stones in the centre of the hall. Indeed, Lot and Morgause’s hall was like this, but their wealth meant they had other wooden buildings built around the main hall for their use, and Morgause had asked for some of these buildings to be built very close to the main hall. One of these smaller dwellings held their sons and Mordred; Lot had argued with his wife that it was not the done thing to send their children into another dwelling, they should live in the main hall with their parents, but she clearly preferred her peace. Her and Lot’s sleeping quarters were in the main hall to the south side, raised up on a platform- below it were looms for weaving. The sleeping quarter had one arched window that looked out onto the boy’s sleeping hut- the two buildings were joined by stone walls, making a fenced off area.

Since his burnt arms, Mordred had not sat out by the low stone walls. Instead, he had taken to watching the Smith repair the wooden rampart wall with nails.

A high wooden wall circled the entire collection of buildings, with men guarding the main entrance. Within the walls lay a small chapel, pens for the animals, and a leather workshop, and of course their own dwellings and the hall; just outside the walls was the smithy.

 

Mordred stretched out his legs and surveyed the site. He was always up earlier than the pampered sons of Lot; he had been used to getting up to help his parents, but now his hands were often idle and he had taken to intently watching everyone in the settlement do their jobs. The Smith and the Smith's son had glistening sweat on their brows though the sun was weak; their shoulders and arms too were drenched in sweat.

 

Without thinking, he found himself wandering over to the wall and picking up a roughly made tool from near the Smith's feet. Boldly, his bony hands reached to the leather pouch at the Smith's hips and he took out a fist full of nails. The smith and his son stopped.

 

“I’ll help.”

 

The Smith shrugged.

 

“As yer wish. Watch us first.” And Mordred eagerly took to copying the two men until the sun was directly above him in the cloudy sky.

 

Later, Gawain saw Mordred washing.

 

Mordred had clearly thought himself alone. It was early in the evening; golden sun leaked into the dark room through a small, high window. Gareth was asleep in a servant’s lap just outside the doorway; the twins, screaming and shouting, full of energy, were outside. Mordred had come back to his bed eagerly after a few hours with the smith and his son mending the ramparts; his back ached and his neck only saved from burning by his long, dark hair. Sweat stuck the tunic to his arms and chest- he’d dropped the tunic to the floor and bent over the clay bowl to wash himself when Gawain had come in.

 

At first, Mordred did not sense Gawain’s presence.

 

The red-headed youth stood by his own bed and let his eyes wander. He thought it no harm- all the brothers had seen each other without clothes, and when young they often shared baths. He realised that they still did now. Why would his new brother- Gawain thought of Mordred as such- be any different than them?

What surprised Gawain at first was that Mordred, like Gawain, was covered in freckles; though Gawain’s were was red as the hair on his head, Mordred’s freckles were darker. He noticed how small and bony he was too. He could count the knobbles of Mordred’s spine, and his shoulders were narrow and pointed; hips too were angular. Then, Mordred turned around and faced Gawain, and both went very pale.

 

To Gawain’s surprise, Mordred made no move to cover himself. He was bare all over, and Gawain could not help but fix his eyes between Mordred’s legs and stare. His cheeks flushed red and hot but he continued to look because he was pretty sure he’d never seen anything quite like that before.

Mordred’s voice was quiet but quick, almost hissed.

 

“Get out.”

 

Gawain made towards Mordred’s fallen tunic in aid but Mordred’s glare turned him away, and without another bashful glance, he left the room.

 

Darkness had fallen and the hall was blanketed in silence by the time all five boys were in bed.

Only Mordred slept. The four others, including the young Gareth, fingers in mouth, were eyeing the dark haired boy with confusion as he tossed and turned in his bed. Gaheris wondered softly whether they should wake him, but Agravaine grunted that Mordred should be left alone. The twins always obeyed each other.

Gareth’s eyes were wide and fixated on the bed next to him that creaked under the stirring of the body on top. Gawain moved and soon his large, cool hands surrounded Gareth and pulled his face into his chest. It soothed his itching eyes.

 

Gawain watched patiently, but he ached from tiredness and was irritated by the lack of decision. It was no good just watching when something could be done. He tucked Gareth into bed (rather too tightly, he realised later) and stood by Mordred’s bed. Then, he kicked the straw mattress and kicked it hard. But Mordred continued to thrash… started to make panicked sounds that irritated Gawain more than anything else. So the next time, a little out of spite, he kicked Mordred square in the ribs.

 

Agravaine was sure that Mordred had been crying when he woke, but Gaheris had whispered to him to hold his tongue and he had. Agravaine remained listening, however, even when he rolled over to face away from Mordred and Gawain; his older brother had been rubbing Mordred’s back, and Mordred made sounds as though he was struggling to breathe. Between gasps, he heard Mordred’s low voice.

 

“Was the sea. I was drowning in the sea.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The darkness pooled around him, cold, wet, blue. Weeds and slippery fingers wrapped around his toes and ankles- he made thrashing motions, persistent and panicking, but he remained still as though caught in a net… hands making their way up his legs and swallowing up his torso, thick blue tongues caressing his chin and mouth-

 

Air flooded his lungs. Relief! Bolting upright in bed, Arthur spluttered through shallow, uneven breaths; the air was cool to his chest. He could hear a babe wail, the sound filling every crack in his mind and spilling over into the rest of his body; his body shook as he leapt out of bed and towards the centre of the hall where the ambers of the fires still endured.

 

Gwenhwyfar, awake (and had been for some time), trailed furs behind her as she went to him. She pulled snow coloured fur closer around her shoulders as she watched Arthur stare into the flames; the colours of autumn lit up his face. She could almost count the freckles on his cheeks in the flickering light.

 

“What is it, Art?” She was met with silence but expected nothing else.

 

She had bound herself to a man who she had yet to open. He was a stubborn lock that her keys only sometimes stiffly opened- many times, the metal rattled and failed to turn. It left her aching. Her hands went to his neck and shoulders and started to tenderly touch them. He bit her lip as she realised he was covered in sweat but swallowed her protests. He needed her comfort.

 

“A bad dream?”

 

Her eyebrows arched when she heard him mutter something under his breath.

 

“Of drowning.” he had said, but she did not hear.


End file.
